


Unyielding

by FaiaSakura



Series: Foxhole Ficlets [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, M/M, Minor Violence, Nightmares, at least I think it's minor, if it's not please let me know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 23:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura
Summary: Andrew takes comfort in Neil after waking up from a nightmare.





	Unyielding

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [casual comfortable andreil](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/510103) by Midgart. 

> I saw some lovely art and felt the compulsion to make it sad.
> 
> TY to [adverbialstarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adverbialstarlight) for betaing!

Andrew ignores the way his stomach growls and instead tries to press his face further into Neil’s shoulder blade. His eyes are squeezed shut as he attempts to ground himself in his other senses. He focuses on the rhythmic _thump-thump _of Neil’s heart beating against his ear—steady, strong, alive. He breathes in the familiar mix of laundry detergent and sweat from Neil’s shirt and tries to breathe out his panic in measured breaths.

It doesn’t work.

Every exhale is shaky, wracked with tremors that match the rabbiting heart trying to escape his chest.

“You need to eat.”

When he doesn’t answer, Neil prompts again, “Andrew.” Not pleading, not pushing, not upset. Just a firm _Andrew_ that meets him where he’s at.

Andrew tightens his arms wrapped around Neil’s waist in response. His hands clutch on Neil’s shirt even tighter in a futile effort to stop his hands from trembling. He settles further into the beanbag chair, refusing to budge.

The nonsensical nightmare holds Andrew in thrall, even after waking from his nap. Snatches of Stuart Hatford being too late, of Agent Browning bringing back a corpse, of Andrew helpless to do anything more than watch Neil be tortured, still linger.

Andrew’s mind, intimately familiar with the many scars that spread across Neil, provided a violently bloody version of every injury freshly made, and then some.

The dream jumped between different scenarios, back and forth, with no rhyme or reason. One moment, the mildest scene of them all, involved the Foxes crying in a morgue, looking at Neil’s torn up face on a cold steel table, pale with death. Allison was shrieking and Nicky was babbling hysterical as Matt punched at a wall and Kevin broke down. It was an empty, sterile moment where every member of the team was shockingly loud and vividly alive, except for Neil. 

The next moment, Andrew was immobile, tied down and being forced to watch Neil get carved up into tiny pieces in what looked like the back room of a deli. Chunks of flesh and fat strewn were all about as the Butcher hacked his own son apart like meat while wearing an apron and chef’s hat. Photographs taken of the Wesninski household, shown to them by federal agents, also fueled Andrew’s imagination for what tools might be used. The axe and the cleaver, a rack of stainless steel kitchen knives on a wall. His own knowledge of weapons meant being able to think up twisted uses and creative implementation for each tool available.

Suddenly, they were on a court with Riko Moriyama, whose eyes were manic with anger as he wildly swung an exy racquet. Black birds flocked in tight formation around him before transforming into faceless Raven players dressed in the matching formal clothes from the Winter Banquet last year. Riko crushed every one of Neil’s fingers with unmatched ferocity, inflicting a more painful and more final version of what he did to Kevin, whose scars Andrew also knew well. Andrew was a spectator in the crowd watching the bloody torture, unable to do anything as Riko stole away all the joy that lit Neil’s eyes whenever he stepped upon a court.

Then it rewound to what would have been closer to reality. Confessions made in the safety of darkness about what Nathan Wesninski planned to do to Neil served as fuel for the dark imagination twisting Andrew’s macabre dream. Cut Achilles tendon, sliced up arms and legs. Neil could never again breathe in freedom from the wind as he ran. Could never run again. Would never breathe again.

Neil’s return from a light afternoon run woke Andrew from the grisly confines of sleep but Andrew’s eidetic memory is once again his enemy.

How many times has it recreated his living horrors in his sleep?

Neil instantly recognizes that Andrew isn’t okay and lets himself be pulled onto Andrew’s lap. Now that Neil is safely enclosed in his arms, Andrew’s not interested in letting go for something as trivial as food.

Neil wriggles a bit but doesn’t move to leave, accepting Andrew’s silent request to stay like this. His body is warm and firm and alive in Andrew’s arms. Andrew can feel his chest expand and contract with every breath from where his face is pressed into Neil’s back.

The shirt in Andrew’s grip is soft, a cotton-blend bought in a pack from some big box store because Neil still acts like he’s allergic to dressing with any reasonable sense of style, despite multiple people’s best efforts.

Normally, Andrew might slip his hand under the edge of the shirt, feel that familiar expanse of skin with scars in patterns that he has long memorized. Those jagged lines and uneven textures had brought him down from the edge of hysteria once. Andrew has tried on multiple occasions to rewrite those violent lines with tender kisses, following a map only he’s allowed familiarity with. But he can’t handle such a visceral reminder right now.

Time passes.

Neil doesn’t speak.

It’s the most infuriating part about Neil. It’s the best part about Neil. It’s the part Andrew still has trouble believing is real.

How Neil looks at him with acceptance.

How, when Andrew does something that anyone else would question or be baffled by, Neil understands.

How Andrew can draw his boundaries any which way and Neil will walk up to them but never cross over.

How Neil passed every test, foiled every trick, saw through every mask, time after time until Andrew finally had no choice but to accept that there wasn’t a need for them anymore, not with Neil.

How he looks at Andrew and can see him for who he really is.

Neil is Andrew’s weakness and strength in one.

Even now, Neil’s actions are unconditional. He gives no protest to being held like a security blanket or stuffed animal on Andrew’s lap. He doesn’t demand to know what pushed Andrew so far into this panic. He doesn’t fidget in discomfort or impatience.

He exists, a partner by Andrew’s side, supportive and unyielding to both external pressures and Andrew’s own attempts to push him away out of fear.

Slowly, slowly, the tremors stop, his breathing steadies and his heart beats as one with Neil’s.

Andrew shifts a little and opens his eyes to the dim light of dusk trailing in from the window, rapidly fading but still enough to see from. He’s hungry and tired and he lost feeling in his legs ages ago but still doesn’t want to move.

Neil’s arm cross and his hands hover over Andrew’s own. “Yes or no?”

Andrew takes mental stock and determines that having those hands on his skin will be a comfort. “Yes,” he croaks out, throat dry from disuse.

It further anchors him back in reality. Neil’s hands are rough from playing exy and never using lotion, a familiar sensation keeping Andrew grounded. His grip is firm and he doesn’t try to dislodge Andrew’s grip on his shirt. The little circles Neil rubs along the backs of Andrew’s hand are a tender intimacy he never thought would be a part of his life but is slowly starting to accept as possible.

The sky darkens, leaving the room shadowed.

Andrew’s stomach grumbles again, louder and Neil taps twice on Andrew’s left hand in response.

“Let me up for a moment? I’ll come back quickly.” Even after all this time, Neil is patient. He would continue to be still in Andrew’s arms if the answer was _no._

It’s that unconditional acceptance that allows Andrew to say, “Yes.”

Neil releases Andrew’s hands and stands up. The sudden loss of warmth is almost enough to make Andrew pull Neil back in, but he restrains himself.

As Neil heads towards the kitchen, he asks, “Lights, yes or no?”

“Yes.” Andrew closes his eyes as the overhead lights flick on and opens them to a properly lit room. He shakes his legs to return some blood flow to them and stretches out his cramped hands.

True to his word, Neil is quick to return, with a pint of ice cream and spoon.

He expects Neil to hand him the ice cream, but Neil just makes to resume their position. Andrew adjusts so that Neil is between his legs this time and wraps his arms around Neil again.

Neil opens the container, spoons out a scoop, and brings it towards his shoulder such that Andrew can reach.

If anyone else tried to feed Andrew, he would balk at the pretense and audacity of it all, fend off the spoon with one of his knives. But this Neil, who somehow recognizes that Andrew still needs the reassurance of having him in his arms and is trying to fulfill that while also getting Andrew to eat. 

Andrew accepts the bite, letting the comforting taste of his favorite flavor fill his mouth. It’s Irish Cream Brownie ice cream, with a boozy Irish cream base, brownie chunks, and fudge swirls.

Neil continues feeding him, bite after bite. Andrew feels like he should be embarrassed by how saccharine this is becoming but chooses instead to indulge in the casual intimacy and ice cream.

More nightmares and more dark moments lie ahead, but each step grows less daunting with Neil unyielding by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are both much appreciated! Thanks for reading and come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FaiaSakura) or [Tumblr](http://faiasakura.tumblr.com) ❤


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